


Pieces That Complete Me

by crowley_and_abadouche



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Complete, M/M, Short Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-26
Updated: 2015-07-26
Packaged: 2018-04-11 06:02:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4424138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crowley_and_abadouche/pseuds/crowley_and_abadouche
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is feeling angsty. Everyone is trying to comfort him. He doesn't know how to explain that their efforts are useless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pieces That Complete Me

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first story here, and it's poorly written, but I hope you'll enjoy it!
> 
>  TRIGGER WARNING: mentions of suicide, depression, and death, cursing

It's been about half a year. About half a year since he left John. He has trouble even saying his name. 

Pity baskets and "sorrowful" letters have piled up on John's table, he hasn't opened a single one. Yet, however unorganised, he can't help but be appreciative of the lack of specimens left in the kitchen. His limp also came back, despite the many visits to his former therapist. She hasn't helped him whatsoever, but it gives him a routine that he's now used to. The lack of cases, of a companion, and of witty banter, have left him apathetic and bored.

Molly, Greg and Sarah, others who think that a hug and comforting words will solve his troubles, all acted as if he were volatile, about to explode. They handle him with care and never allow a distressed expression to make its way onto his face, despite him desperately needing someone to break through his facade so he could convey his inner emotions. He thought that they acted as though he was about to through himself off of a bridge or take his gun and redecorate the flat wall. 

If John was being completely honest (which he hardly ever was), he didn't feel suicidal. He didn't feel depressed. He didn't think of this event as something he would think about for his entire life. He felt anger, and he felt numb. Angry because the absolute asshole that the detective was had somehow found a way through the ex-soldiers wounded heart. John would never admit, but he loved the asshole. He wasn't sure if it was romantic, platonic, brotherly or as an idol, but he knew he loved him. It made this entire experience much harder than it would have been otherwise. If he had just not gone out for coffee that morning and didn't run into Stamford and didn't move into this hellish flat, he wouldn't have to deal with this shit.

Sometimes, if John was feeling overly sentimental, he would wear the scarf. He told himself that he was only wearing it because it was cold and he didn't have any scarves himself, but John knew secretly that it was because it smelt like him-nicotine, his expensive aftershave, coffee-and it was the softest accessory he had ever felt. John had to wear nice things to make up for the rough fatigues he wore for years. 

John would also go into his old flatmate's room, just to tidy or dust or something, another thing to keep him busy. Nothing was ever out of place and nothing was taken out of the room, except for a picture that John found on his dresser. He'd not seen it before, so he assumed it was left there the day he jumped. He did weird things like that. 

The picture was taken into the living room. It sat on the small table next to the green, leather chair. A picture of John and him, in a perfect black frame. It was after a case that had given them both headaches as it seemed impossible to solve. They were sitting on the sofa, John had assumed that Mrs. Hudson had taken it. He was ashamed of how close they were sitting, as he was always so insistent about how they were not together and he tried to ruin all possibilities of anyone finding some kind of evidence that they were not dating. However, he soon realised how ridiculous he was being and got rid of some unnecessary pride. John now loved the picture, he loved being able to see them both smiling and relaxing together. 

To everyone's surprise, as well as his own, he started dating again. He was not actually looking for a girlfriend, but it was a nice way of passing time. He was out of the house, but his smiles and enjoyment was faked. A show put on for society. An act that he might be able to use so people will stop trying to coddle and comfort him.

Mrs. Hudson was constantly checking on him, never satisfied with John's answer of "I'm okay". No one understands that John was a soldier. He killed people. People killed him. He's been shot, kidnapped, choked, traumatised. He would never show anyone his true feelings.

He would never show anyone how broken he really felt. His best friend saved him emotionally. His best friend saved him physically, mentally. John would never be able to pay him back. And he would never know why he killed himself. No one would ever know. Yet, he knew he would never be able to be put back together again, never be his full self. He had pieces missing, too many. His pieces were lost. Jumped off a fucking building and are in a casket underground. 

The pieces that completed John Watson were Sherlock Holmes, and now he can never be fixed again. 


End file.
